


Gravity

by facade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Recovered Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9656540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: He knows he shouldn't. The warning signs are there. The safety precautions are in place. But he keeps falling anyway.





	1. Failure

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not back on here (yet) but someone on here keeps liking my stuff and //thank you so fucking much//? I'm not sure if it's one person or if it's several but either way, it makes it impossible to forget my Archived works (kudos to you all) and you're amazing. 
> 
> This is a repost of my first ever work. I've been uploading my older shit to make room on some of my hard drives and, while I've been hesitant to upload this one (as it's my first work), I no longer have a choice as I'm moving in two weeks. I'm dividing it up in the upload (it's easier for me to look at sectionalized like this).
> 
> Legit, though -- the real reason I'm posting this is merely so I can write this: thank you to the whoever(s) that keep popping into my inbox ❤️

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...trips because, in these past twenty-four hours, he's been nothing less than a complete and utter failure at this life thing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The texting is obnoxiously typed as I can't indent at the moment.

His thighs feel swollen and he can already feel his sweat attempting to creep down his forehead, beads of it slithering into his eyes and he wipes away at the straying moisture, smearing dirt across his features in the process. ((Fuck)). He glares up towards the sun, eyes squinting against the brightness, silently begging for the sound of the whistle to bring the sounds of struck balls and playful banter to a halt. He loves his career. He loves training. He loves that his muscles ache and that his chest trembles when he breathes. This weather, however? He loves it not.

Ancelotti seems to have found his thoughts because not long after he’s kicking the ball towards one of the coaches, jogging to catch up with the rest of his teammates as Carlo pulls them in for the day's wrap up. He can hear Ancelotti handing out rooming assignments as he finds Iker’s side, hears the Italian threatening to “cram them into rooms like sardines” as disapproval can be heard from the majority and he nods his head as Iker quirks an eyebrow in his direction; they’ve always roomed together…

...but Ancelotti seems to be handing out rooming assignments himself -- has delegated the task to Iker, at least -- and this only draws further groans of discontent from the group as Ancelotti jogs off to speak with ZiZou about their upcoming friendly after handing off the typed page. He hears his teammates shouting requests but he, himself, isn’t overly concerned with who he may or may not have to room with; he gets on with everyone in the squad -- even Arbie -- and he finds himself spacing out as Iker slowly makes his way through the squad. It isn’t until Iker has assigned himself with Xabi that he begins to panic, not until he recalls fragments of a conversation had a few days prior, a conversation made possible by way of alcohol, that he realises what Iker is doing…

The smirk on the bastard's face as he pairs him with Cristiano confirms it all -- ((Fuck me sideways)) -- as he's certain that's not the assignment Carlo has given him. He claps slowly, almost sarcastically, trying to hide the anxious mess that he is quickly becoming and shakes his head in disbelief (but truly, he acknowledges that he should not be surprised in the least). He’s still clapping as he sees Cristiano giving him a curious look just within his peripheral and shakes his head with an apologetic smile in his direction ((no offense to you… but fuck this guy)) just before he turns to head in the locker room. He’s almost through the doors when a hand pulls him back and he finds himself turned around, looking up at a curious Cris.

“Do we have an issue that I’m unaware of?” The tone is as confused as it is challenging and he’s having a difficult time processing it. ((We do)) but he settles for shaking his head in response. Cris still looks defensive so he places a hand on the other’s shoulder, explains his issue is more to do with…

“...this fucker,” he chuckles as Iker attempts to pass them, attempts and fails as he pushes him to the side. Cristiano seems to accept this answer, nodding as he makes his way past him and into the locker room, leaving the two other men to their business. “What are you doing, Iker?”

“I’m just trying to help my brother out, Sergio,” he smiles as he forces himself past the Sevillan, “You’ll thank me sooner rather than later.”  


* * *

Cristiano doesn’t hesitate in taking the bedroom furthest from the door, though, truth be told, he certainly makes it seem as if he’s given Sergio the bedroom closest to the door. Typically, Sergio would argue with the forward because, contrary to what the winger is saying, he is most certainly not into the ‘getting shit-faced at the club’ scene, however, tonight he has happened upon himself in a rare mood, tonight he happens to find himself all for it. He isn’t alone: the entire team -- Cristiano excluded due to his obligations with Nike -- responds to his text within thirty minutes and he finds himself sitting next to Iker at the bar not even an hour later, finds himself drunk not two hours later.

He’s mumbling about how beautiful people are now, has been for the past four hours, and he’s attempting to get himself another drink of which Iker vehemently refuses. Iker looks so… “Iker, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers as he gently caresses his captain’s face. “You know what you are…” and he chuckles as the corny thought finds him, “you’re a, you’re a keeper, Iker!” There’s a line. He’s certain he's crossed it as Iker is removing him from the barstool by his bicep but Iker is smiling, and he likes it when Iker smiles. “This is great. You, you are great.”

They’re outside now and Iker’s cheeks are painted red, his smile permanently fixated within his features, crinkles by his eyes. “You’re pretty great, too, Sergio…” and he feels his heart swell because, though sober Sergio denies it, he’s pretty emotional when he drinks (he's pretty emotional when he /doesn't/ too), “...but it’s time for you to get back to the hotel.”

A cab pulls up and Sergio briefly wonders when Iker had found the time to call someone before he remembers that “I can’t go back there, Iker.” He whispers for no logical reason, but alcohol keeps him distant from logic, and he glances over his shoulder as if the club’s walls have eyes and ears. “((He’s)) back there,” eyes widening as he stresses the pronoun. Iker seems to be confused so he clarifies, but not before eying the ever curious cabby and lowering his voice further still. “((Cris)) is back there.”

Iker shakes his head, shooting him a look that Sergio’s only ever seen him give to his niece. “How old are you, Sergio…” and Sergio actually moves to answer but can’t because Iker is still speaking... and he's run out of fingers, “...besides, you told me that it was a momentary thought and that it was nothing.”

((Then why did you pair us within the same room)) would have been the proper response but intoxication robs him of anything proper. “I lied, Iker. I do that sometimes”. Iker is smiling and his amusement of the situation offends him. “Iker. Iker. Listen, Iker. Listen. It’s not funny, Iker. I think I heard him earlier,” he confesses, making a motion with his hand that Iker hurriedly pushes down with heavy laughter and crimson cheeks. “Why are you embarrassed? I was the one with a chubby after he climbed out of the shower.”

Iker is shushing him and is shoving him into the back of the car and, as much as he feels the need to fight the other, he simply can’t fight him, doesn't. “What am I supposed to do”, he asks the cabby, who is offering him a sympathetic smile and a shrug (he doesn't understand the slurring lump of human flesh in his backseat). He shrugs in return and glances over to Iker, who is currently giving the cabby directions and a prepayment. “I can’t go back there…” he mumbles to himself. “I can’t do it.”

“Whatever you do” -- Iker’s voice is beside him again and he thoughtlessly traces the scruff of his chin -- “just rest assured that you can always blame it on the alcohol.” He gives him an affectionate kiss on the cheek and, before he can say anything in protest, Iker closes the door, waves him off as he slowly heads back inside.

“Blame it on the booze, got you feeling loose. Blame it on the ‘tron, got you in the zone. Blame it on the…”

“I’ll pay ((you)) to stop singing,” the cabby laughs, tossing back the money Iker had handed him. “It’s not a bad song but you, you make it sound bad, my friend.” That, he knew, in seven languages no less. (Impressive)

* * *

An eight year old happens to making their way back from the hotel’s pool when he stumbles into the elevator for the third time. Without her, he would still be wandering the many floors of the hotel had he managed to drag himself away from the hotel's dining facilities -- (doubtful). She couldn’t direct him back to his room -- for that he applauds her parents -- but she points him in the general direction and sends him on his way with the rolling of her eyes. 

“Cris,” Sergio moans out as he all but collapses within the doorway, hands and knees pressing against cool wood as his own weight feels a bit too much. ((Did I eat something? I ate something)). It has taken him five minutes to figure out how to place his card within the slot alone, two minutes further to figure out how and when to turn the handle before the light timed out. He’s cursing gravity at the moment -- it curses him in return -- but he refuses to allow it to keep him down any longer. He finds his feet quickly, too quickly, and desperately clutches for the support of the walls. ((Fucking hell. This walking shit is intense)). He glances up and immediately smirks as he finds Cristiano watching him, the other with his mouth open, plum in hand, ready to sink his teeth into the juicy… “I’ll give you something juicy to put your mouth around.” He’s smirking as he makes his offer but only because he doesn’t realise that those words aren’t mere thoughts; he doesn't realise he’s actually speaking at the moment. He just knows that Cris is standing in front of him, mouth open, fruit in his now motionless hand: a sight to behold. He can see where the winger has already taken a bite, can see the juices of the plum streaming carelessly down the hand and wrist of the other. “You shouldn’t stand there with your mouth open,” he warns as he sinks back onto the floor, overpowered by gravity once again, “someone might get the right idea and take ((all of that)),” -- eyes surveying the other from head to toe, to head -- “as an invitation.”

Cristiano stays silent, seemingly frozen, confusion evident against his features as he surveys Sergio’s expressions and overall ‘stature’ (if he could even call it that at this point). “Are you…” he starts before cutting himself off, shaking his head as Sergio begins to blow him kisses. “You’re three miles past drunk,” he observes, relief evident in his light chuckles as he makes his way over to the Spaniard. “Why didn’t someone cut you off, Sergio, huh? Who let it get this far?” His body cringes, nose crinkles when he’s still three feet away but he dares himself to get closer -- Sergio admitting offense all the while -- and his disgust grows audible as the smell of stale alcohol reaches him. “That, that is a putrid odor. You smell as if you’re in as desperate need of a shower as you are of a stomach pump...”

“...and you,” Sergio interrupts as Cristiano begins lifting him from off of the floor, “look as if you’re in desperate need of a good fuck. I can help with that.” He still doesn’t realise that his mouth is running, doesn’t realise that his mind and rationale are numb and that his filter snapped in two somewhere between his fourth and fifth drink. His fingers seem to be in the same company of his mouth as they run along the top buttons of Cristiano’s shirt, unfastening them to reveal the collarbone of the forward. His mouth runs dry though be it an effect of the alcohol or the temptation he’s unsure. “Who the hell do you think you are, looking sexy as hell in your fancy suit?” His fingers play with exposed flesh and he’s too caught up in it to notice that Cristiano is growing tense. “We all know you look even better without it… Why such a tease, Cris?” He tugs at the bottom of Cristiano’s shirt, dangerously plays with the waistband of the briefs peeking out from within the other’s dress pants. “So many layers. Too many layers…”

He would have kept on if not for the fact that Cris’ hands now cover his, press lightly against his, and a look of admonishment now seems to take hold of the forward’s features. His name parts from Cristiano's lips and Sergio wants nothing more than for him to say it again, to hear his name in whispers without the words that follow. “You’re drunk…” and there’s something unfamiliar within his voice -- something like disappointment, hurt, and wanting all twisted into some fucked up emotion -- but it’s gone as quickly as Sergio finds it, is replaced by a sudden coldness, “and neither of us want this.”

Sergio tries to protest, but he’s still caught within Cristiano's grasp and his inebriated state prevents him from pushing much of anything. He sighs in defeat, attempts to stand by pressing against Cris but fails as his body opts to go limp, limbs flopping around like overcooked pasta instead. He’s going down and he’s going to smack right back down against the floor but Cristiano, he sweeps him up once more in a manner most instinctive, almost protective. “You swept me off my feet, Ronaldo.” ((“Please, just stop talking”)) but the laughter is warm, as warm as the hold and he wants to stay, needs to stay in this moment if only a little while longer.

* * *

The room spins yet he manages to make out a bed in the blur of it all, a few pillows forming a plush mountain, a comforter falling gently over himself. He sighs as the feel of two warm hands find him, groans as they roll him towards the edge of the bed, may have mumbled "Lucifer" as a soft voice told him to "stay". (Not quite what he had in mind when he had envisioned his evening). He makes out the sound of a hollow --clink! -- and narrows his eyes to make out the outline of a trash can resting at the side of the bed, smiles softly as words find him, “in case you feel the need to barf up a continent.” He grins as a warm body slots in from behind him, his wants anchored and held at bay by that same body and that same voice, “so you don’t roll to your back and drown in your own vomit, as alluring as that may sound.” ((Yes. This was exactly how he pictured his first time in bed with Cristiano. So romantic)). He attempts to turn yet Cristiano holds firm, attempts to wriggle but the grip only tightens, concedes to the weight of his eyelids after only ten minutes of striving (and failing) to turn the encounter into something more...

“I love you.” The three words hang in the air, leaving both unsure of how they managed to escape his lips, one unsure of their meaning.

* * *

The noise is worse than an alarm clock and he isn’t sure of how much longer he can take it. His head is throbbing and… ((Fuck me!)) He curses the sun as the rays of it ((too)) easily break through the window, the drapes having been pulled purposefully to the side to ensure that he’ll have no relief on the day. He practically throws himself to the floor in response to the agonising light, instantly regretting the sudden movement as his stomach churns and slowly finds his feet… only to quickly find his knees before a trash can that had been kindly placed at his bedside. ((I swear to God and all things Holy)) he promises as he empties the contents of his stomach ((I will destroy the source of that noise as soon as I can stand again)).

He doesn’t feel shame -- but he’s certain that he should -- as he crawls out of the bedroom in the most literal sense. He stops mid-crawl as he finds the source of the unbearable noise, pauses as he finds Satan, Himself: Cristiano seems to be banging around pots and pans for the sole purpose of making as much noise as humanly possible, or so it seems. He confirms the theory as Cristiano catches sight of him, a grin smearing itself against his features and Sergio groans, silently wondering what the hell he did the night before to get under Cris’ skin. He freezes. ((Tell me I didn’t…))

“Sergio,” and yes, yes he is speaking much louder than he needs to be but no, no he does not seem care so pointing it out to him would be... “you look like shit! I have to say, kind of an improvement"... stupid/trivial/a death wish. ((Do it)). Sergio made him suffer for nearly twelve hours of the night, depriving him of rest in every sense of the word so a few hours of suffering are due in return.

“I guess I look how I feel today because I can’t seem to…” He pauses as he glances around the kitchen, catching sight of at least ten unused pots and pans. “What is this? What are you doing? Those pots and pans were never intended to be musical instruments, Cristiano. Are you trying to make me feel worse?” He looks up and sees Cristiano mocking him, complete with gestures and childish facials; he has half a mind to use one of the skillets the other has out as a weapon.

“...because everything is about you, isn’t it?” He rolls his eyes but turns his back before Sergio can make out whatever snide remark the forward mouths as a follow up... but the senseless slamming of the frying pan…? That message is received, has been received for the last ((TWO FUCKING HOURS)). “I’m just over here, minding my own damn business, trying to make breakfast at a decent hour but that doesn’t fit into Sergio’s schedule of self-loathing.” Cris tosses a pot into the sink, carelessly allowing it to clatter with whatever metal contraption simply because he can. “So now I must cease and desist my regularity so that I may, instead, pity the man who partook in his own self-destruction? I think not.” ((It’s going to be a long morning)).

Realising that he has engaged in a battle he would be losing, that he has attempted what seems to be a war of attrition with no ammo in his reserves, he succumbs to the mischievous smirk and returns one of his own accompanied with a sigh of defeat. “So, you’re making breakfast…? Despite that the cruel nature of your ways would suggest otherwise, that’s proof that you still love me.”

Glancing up from his eggs, Cristiano holds up the spatula in an attempt to stop him as a bemused smirk smears beneath his quirking brows and glittering eyes. “Back down to earth, sunshine. I never said that I was making ((you)) shit.”

He chuckles as he feigns hurt, finds Cristiano long enough to observe that he seems to be dressed in his usual, dapper fashion but... He quickly finds the eggs in the pan scrambled, notes that Cris takes his eggs over-easy and calls ((bullshit)) but he’ll play. “Oh, come on, Cristiano. You’re not that mean. Besides,” he begins, waving his hands as if to point at the kitchen, “it’s the least you could do after…”

“It’s the least I could do after you vomited on me last night? Is that what you’re about to say because anything else is giving yourself too much credit. I had to soak in a fucking bath for two hours just to get the stench of it off of me. Two fucking hours, Sergio, and I still think… You know what? Now that you mention it,” he chuffs as he tosses the spatula on the countertop, “you need to get your ass up here and you need to cook ((for me)), you little shit.” He laughs as Sergio’s eyes round in bewilderment and the latter can feel blood rushing to his cheeks.

((I didn’t…)) He slowly starts to put the pieces of the puzzle that is last night together within his mind. He barely remembers the night before but he recalls falling asleep within his own bed but he definitely had awakened in Cristiano’s, hence the fucking window. ((Oh my god)). He glances down at his white shirt and Nike shorts, wonders when he put them on only to quickly realise that he hadn’t. ((OH.MY.FUCKING.GOD. I DID)). He feels humiliated but it seems as if Cris isn’t quite finished tearing into him yet…

“... I mean, have ((you)) ever tried to give a non-compliant, grown ass man a sponge bath at four o’clock in the morning? If it’s anywhere on your bucket list, you can just scratch that shit off because it is no fucking fun. I swear, bathing my dogs is an easier task than that shit was.” Cris is grinning but he shakes his head as he speaks, his eyes cast down at the eggs frying over the heat of the range.

Attempting to restore some sense of his dignity, Sergio takes the other’s distracted tone as an opportunity to engage in his own mischief. “Oh, stop complaining, Cristiano. I’m sure you like what you saw,” he teases as he playfully shoves his tongue between his teeth…

...but Cristiano doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn’t like baths (aside from purposeful baths, baths targeting muscle recovery) as soaking in his own filth is something he deems miles away from relaxing. That he had to soak in one, for four hours no less… “To be honest, there wasn’t much to see,” he chuckles as he opens his mouth to form the shape of an “O”. Sergio attempts to recover, pointing out the fact that Cris had, in fact, looked but the winger shakes his head dismissively before Sergio has a chance to make anything more of it. His mood is dying down, his laughter is becoming forced but Sergio doesn’t notice the transition. “You kept thrusting it in my face as I was attempting to wash the vomit from off of you -- you were drenched with your insides.”

Sergio snickers at the mere thought of him attempting thrusts in his sleep but shame seeps into the tones of his voice despite the mask of laughter. “Why the fuck was I doing pelvic thrusts in my sleep…?” He glances up, notices that Cristiano’s smile is gone and seems to have been gone for a while as a heavier, unreadable expression passes through. He seems -- “why the fuck do you do half of the shit that you do, Sergio?” -- hurt. No matter how many times he blinks, the expression lingers still and guilt takes residency within his chest. ((I hurt Cristiano? How could I…? What the fuck did I…?))

It’s hard for him to speak, to breathe even, with the knot that seems to form within his throat yet he manages, albeit barely. “Look, Cris. Abou-t, about last night…” He stands simply because he needs to do something with himself, grabs his empty glass and makes for the fridge for some water because he needs to do something that isn’t entirely awkward… trips because, in these past twenty-four hours he’s been nothing less than a complete and utter failure at this life thing. He trips and he falls, right into Cristiano’s arms for the second time within the last eighteen hours as his glass shatters against the ledge of the sink.

“Don’t worry about it”, and he wonders why Cristiano is whispering, wonders if he’s talking about the glass or the night before, wonders about that melancholic tone within the other’s voice. “You were intoxicated beyond belief. I’ve seen worse… and to say that to someone who’s puked all over you?” He can’t decide which is worse: his behavior over the past twenty-four hours or that Cristiano’s laugh is so obviously forced, his smile as fake as they come, that he doesn’t know what he’s done or what he’s said, if he’s the reason for the change in Cristiano’s mannerisms. “Breakfast is, uh… Breakfast is ready when you are.”

He hates that the conversation about the night prior ends right then and there, hates that, for everything he wants to say, for everything he needs to say, that he says nothing. He eats in silence as Cristiano disappears into his own room -- plate in hand, door closing between them -- and he swears he’s never felt this lonely.

((Iker)) I want the details

((Outgoing)) Same

((Iker)) ...I don’t get it

((Khedira)) Özil's not really leaving, is he? I asked Iker but he's being shady about it.

((Outgoing)) Me neither. I can’t remember a thing and Cris isn’t talking. I puked on him but he doesn't seem upset about that. I mean, he’s upset but I can’t figure out why.

((Khedira)) At least you lived to tell the tale? Explains the yelling I heard last night, though...

((Outgoing)) FWD: Me neither. I can’t remember a thing and Cris isn’t talking. I puked on him but he doesn't seem upset about that. I mean, he’s upset but I can’t figure out why.

((Outgoing)) Sorry, Sami. That text was meant for Iker... and you know Mes isn't going anywhere.  

((Khedira)) Okay. Should I be worried about your fight with Cris?

((Iker)) I’ll see if I can get anything out of him at the team dinner later on tonight. I'm surprised he even spoke with you if you actually threw up on him

((Outgoing)) Fight? We're not fighting, Sami. He made me breakfast

((Iker)) He made you breakfast? Obviously doesn't hate you. Also (1) never said you were fighting and (2) correct number of letters, wrong letter combination in the name

Adequately frustrated, he checks the time on his phone, finds his feet and the safety of his room not long after; it’s already creeping into the eleven o'clock hour and, while starting one’s day at such an hour in Spain is perfectly acceptable, he isn’t in Spain and his hair is in crises. ((What have you done to yourself, Ramos?))

He feels sick as he stands before the mirror, sick in more ways than one and he feels overwhelmed by all that he doesn’t know -- ((what has he said? ...what has he done? ...what hadn’t he?)) -- and the small amount that he does know, overwhelmed enough to take a Tylenol (or two, or three) to coax his now pulsing migraine into submission before deciding that he needs to start from scratch.

Discarding his clothing, he makes for the bathroom... but slows his pace as he smells the pungent odor of his puke stained clothing before he sees them, steps in something he can only think to refer to as ‘slime’ as he steps through the doorway, and he can’t seem to find the shower soon enough. It doesn’t go without note that Cristiano had found the shower before he has, the former’s clothing litter the floor alongside his, nor does it go without note that the winger, if his clothing is any form of indication, had been mauled by something or someone the night prior. A sinking feeling settles itself within his gut as he slides the glass door closed, eyes on the torn clothing until they blur, and he isn’t sure of how he is going to recover from this, if he is going to recover from this. He sounds melodramatic to himself as the thought finds him but parts of him, parts of him are screaming that he’s not panicking enough… It seems as if just about everything has been destroyed in the span of one night -- and he can’t recall, for the life of him, just how it had managed to happen.


	2. Cold, Rainy Nights in Stoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"...but can they do it on a cold, rainy night in Stoke?" "...not even on a warm evening in Phoenix."_

Unsure of what he’s supposed to do in this current situation, he settles for reaching across the table to rub the head of hair before him, smiles as dry, reddened eyes eventually peer up at him from behind an arm. “You feeling okay,” though he’s already chuckling at himself for having asked what he classifies as a dumb question because obviously… He shakes it off and glances around the restaurant for the umpteenth time as the other moves to force himself upright, attempts to figure out why they’re the only two in the space (not that he minds all that much) as he quickly checks his watch, decides to wait until Iker is functioning before vocalizing his concern as he’s actually fifteen minutes late.

“I am never drinking again,” he vows, he lies as he stretches his arms out above himself, releases a yawn obnoxious enough and sudden enough to cause some unseen someone to drop a glass in the kitchen and he winces, otherwise frozen with the sound. He snickers as Cris blushes and attempts to slide beneath the table, shakes his head in self-admonishment as the newest spell of dizziness approaches and passes without incident before deciding that he’s sulked long enough. “We’re early, in case you haven’t noticed,” he starts as he points out their company of no one, “but purposefully so.” He shakes his head dismissively as the wingers eyebrows quirk and reaches for some of the nuts on display. “I have the great displeasure of sharing a wall with yourself and Sergio,” he explains, though the sharing of the wall has little to do with the intended terminus of the conversation, “and you guys were yelling pretty loudly last night.” Despite popular belief, he doesn’t tell Sergio ‘everything’; Sergio can’t handle ‘everything’... and he knows this, even if Sergio doesn’t.

Cristiano doesn’t move to answer, doesn’t respond immediately in any way and Iker can’t even begin to describe how grateful he is for that; he is grateful that Cristiano has the sense to think things through and he’s grateful that the winger chooses to be level-headed. It’s a much needed break from the impulsivity of Sergio and the fluidity of Mesut. “I know that it’s none of my business, and I know that Sergio was shitfaced last night, and I know that he’s impossible to deal with when there’s alcohol in his system, but you were… You sounded…”

“I was frustrated,” he confesses lightly as he starts to play with one of the empty wine glasses on the table, distractedly shifts around the silverware and napkin combinations of his place setting. “Sergio is… He’s just frustrating for me to be around right now and, I don’t know, when he’s like that, it’s amplified, I guess.”

((He’s impossible)). Iker will be one of the first to admit that he and Cristiano aren’t necessarily close -- while the forward tends to hangout with the Portuguese speakers within the squad, he also seems to have an invisible line that he seldom crosses even with them, a line almost with the sole purpose of keeping his teammates out of his life -- but, as regrettable as Iker finds it to be, he still knows Cristiano well enough to have a feel for when he’s being withholding and dealing in half-truths.

“I know how he can get,” Iker eventually agrees, slipping in an accidental yawn and tugging at his own hair, “but you were… I mean, you just came off as a bit cruel.” He’s no body language expert but he can tell that Cris agrees with the observation, hopes he’ll tell him why at some point. “I’m certain he was being a nuisance and I’m sure he was being invasive, he couldn’t keep his hands off of me when I was guiding him out of the club…” He notes that Cristiano seems to perk up with the revelation, that whatever heaviness had been plaguing him is now in the past and he’s curious, to say the least.

“You know, Cris, we don’t have to be like this,” he tries, pointing between himself and the winger, smiling nervously because ((damn)) he didn’t realise things could be this insensate yet tense between himself and someone he’s spent half a decade playing with. “We don’t have to solely be teammates, two captains sitting at a table discussing another of the captains. We can be friends… We can talk about other things beside football. Anything, really. I’m like a vault.”

It’s as if time slows but only for a moment. For a moment the beat of his heart stills, the blades of the ceiling fan above freeze, the gentle hum of distant laughter and conversation falls to mute… In that moment, he decides that he’s tired. He’s tired of the secrecy and of the paranoia, he’s tired of dealing with the weight of what it means to be himself alone. “I thought he knew and I thought…” he pauses to pick at his fingernails, chews at them when the keratin won’t give because he needs something to keep himself distracted, something to trivialize what would be trivial in a perfect world, “I thought he was mocking me.”

This part, this is the part he hates most: the knowing and the not telling, the secrets when they begin to connect to other secrets. He could build a bridge if he could only just… but Sergio’s truths were Sergio’s and he’s been given no right to simply hand them to Cris, no right to connect them to Cristiano’s truths no matter how tempting. Still, he hates it. “Even if he knows that you’re… I can’t speak for Sergio, but I know that he would never use something like that against you, Cristiano, whether he’s intoxicated or sober. It’s simply not within his character” ((...and hey, by the way, he thinks he loves you)). His head is going to explode soon and he needs a pillow to scream in… and then sleep on. Cris seems to be on to him, though, as he’s being looked at with weighted intrigue, so he stuffs his face with a fistful of nuts to keep himself from cracking because it's tempting to leave fate in the hands of another, it's tempting to play God. “I’m a vault”, he forces out through the chewed food though he’s not sure if he’s assuring Cristiano or reminding himself. He receives a chuckle either way.

They sit in a comfortable silence as the rest of their teammates slowly trickle in, order their drinks as Karim and Varane find their places at the table and as they become surrounded by those they’re more accustomed to speaking with -- Cristiano laughs as Marcelo and Pepe make fools of themselves, Iker rants and raves at Xabi's side, keeping an eye on Cristiano all the while. He wonders how the attacker manages to keep something like that in without imploding, while raising a kid under constant scrutiny by an obsessed media no less, wonders how he manages to laugh at the horrendous joke Pepe’s just shared without having some sort of a psychological breakdown, without screaming his truths at the top of his lungs. He shakes it off. ((Superhuman on the pitch. Superhuman off of it)). 

It’s not surprising that Sergio is the last to arrive -- the Sevillan typically is -- though he does so with a playful jab on the tip of his tongue this time and Cristiano will not readily admit that it stings more than it typically would (but it does). “Thank you for waiting for me, Cristiano,” he laughs as he takes his place beside Iker. “I nearly overslept,” ((“You did oversleep.” “You’re late, fool.” “Nearly overslept... Ha! You hear this guy”)), “and missed dinner all together.”

Cris doesn’t look up from his water-filled wine glass as he casually informs Sergio that Iker had managed to give him the wrong time, not bothering to raise his voice to where anyone besides themselves plus three or four others could hear, but he chuckles graciously as Iker jokes that he had only done so as they would have still been waiting on him otherwise, and quickly turns his attention away from the conversation. He feels vulnerable as he wonders about how many of his teammates had heard his overreaction from the night before, vulnerable as he theorizes what they must think of him now with Sergio’s teasing remarks to add, and he hates that he has no idea of what he can do about it. To cap it off, Khedira keeps asking him if he's okay. "I'm fine." He's not fond of having so many people in his business. 

“All right,” Iker mutters as he manages to find his feet, clinking his fork gently against the side of his wine glass as he forces all eyes on him, “now that our diva is here,” he chuckles as he ruffles Sergio’s perfectly formed hair, “I suppose we can go ahead and get the ball rolling. You’re going to have to excuse me, I had a bit too much last night,” he pauses as the collective agrees with him -- they all had too much of something the night before, “and I’m feeling a bit like I’m wearing last season. I don’t feel much like yelling but I… I’ll be the first to admit that we had shit season last year; we were dealt a bad hand and no matter how hard we worked our asses off -- and we did, there’s no denying the amount of work we put in -- we came up empty. I don't know about you but I’m tired of empty. I’m tired of second. We can change all of that, we will change all of that and this, this is where it starts. Right here, at this table, in this country. We have a match in four days, right here in Phoenix, against a team that… Beating us in the preseason, in a stadium we've never heard of would be the highlight of some of their careers” -- ((“losing to us would be a highlight in their careers, too”)) -- "but we can’t and we won’t give them that.” He glances around the room, all eyes on him, and motions for the servers to start making their way around the table. “We need to start off strong because I’m tired of empty, we deserve more than empty… so let’s eat and fill it up!”

He finds his seat but it’s never soon enough as his legs seem to turn to jello as soon as he does. ((I'm tired of tired, too)). “I missed you at the team breakfast this morning,” he teases as he manages to catch Cristiano’s eye, notes that Sergio is in the midst of his order as Cristiano mirrors his own smile. ((“I needed to apologize… even if he doesn’t remember any of /that/ part of the night.”))

* * *

Sergio lingers as the rest of the team spills out into the parking lot, smiling and laughing over one of Marcelo’s jokes as Iker forces himself to his feet for what he vows will be the last time for the day. He swears he hears his joints creak as he moves and he’s certain Sergio’s heard the same; rolling his eyes as the Andalucian cracks what he swears to be the eighth joke of the evening about his age, he smiles and makes for the door while waving off those that remain within conversation, signaling for Sergio to follow as he steps outside and takes in the “too hot” and “too dry” air. He’s surprised his nose hasn’t started bleeding in these conditions and he takes a moment to wonder why Americans insist on living in such uninhabitable locations.

He shakes his head at the suggestion of a cab as it reaches him, quickly dismisses the idea of sitting only to stand once more as he opts to walk the two miles back to the hotel, providing the logic in it as he informs Sergio that it would give them both more time and greater freedom to speak.

“You’re lucky I’m too desperate to argue with you, Iker,” he chuckles as he jogs to catch up with the keeper. He had barely touched his dinner and had found himself capable of only light banter, of eye contact lasting but only a second or less with Cristiano; he isn’t sure of how much longer he can keep on like this as he feels he's running on fumes even now. “I didn't realise that you were going to be speaking with Cristiano before the dinner -- I thought you’d wait until after, for sure, or try to slip it in during -- but…” He’s rambling. Sergio does that when he’s nervous. “I mean, thank-thank you for speaking with him… You /did/ speak with him, didn’t you? Of course, you spoke with him. You said you would speak with him and I’m sure you spoke with him.” He isn’t sure of how Sergio is still alive as he hasn’t even stopped to catch his breath as of yet, let alone, stopped and given himself time to answer his questions. “So, did he say anything? Well, of course he said /something/ or else you can’t say that the two of you had…”

“Sergio!” Iker’s eyes are rounded and he must admit, will admit that he’s considering tossing Sergio off of the sidewalk and out into traffic… if there had been traffic but there’s, there’s none… Still, he possesses the thought. “Try to breathe, will you? ¡Mierda!” He shakes his head at the other in mild amusement, lightly shoves his arm as their shoulders brush against one another (but not hard enough to send him into fictitious traffic, that counts for something). “Something happened last night that you don’t really need to bother yourself with but, given that’s all we discussed... Míra, there was some kind of miscommunication between the two of you and Cristiano thought you were, no lo sé, attacking him or something.” He pauses for a moment, just long enough to take in Sergio’s… ((Shit, está asustado)). “No, ¡está bien! ¡Está bien! Él entiende! I explained, yo sé, how you are and he gets it. He just thought that you were going out of your way to make him feel… a certain way, you know?”

He shakes his head, not fully understanding because he had gone out of his way to make Cristiano feel a certain way. Of course, the evening is rather fragmented within his memories but he’s certain he had been intent on making his feelings and desires known the night prior. He hadn’t intended to come across as rude or obnoxious, as incessant nor as demanding but he’s confident that he had gone out of his way…

“You’re just going to have to trust me,” Iker sighs out as their hotel falls within view, interrupting the complex thought process he’s certain Sergio is preparing to embark upon, “you weren’t doing what he thought you were doing.”

* * *

He’s sitting up in bed, attempting to read a line for what has to be the thirtieth time when he hears the front door of the room falling to a close. He tells himself that he doesn’t care, that he doesn't want to speak to Sergio about much of anything but his conscience is writhing with guilt, has been from the moment that Iker had told him that Sergio had been touching him excessively and intrusively while out the night before. He hates himself for having been so self-centered, for having taken his insecurities out on Sergio, but he doesn’t know what to do about it -- he never knows what to do -- so he lifts his book back into his line of sight, does his usual nothing. Not even ten seconds later, Sergio is standing in the room’s doorway. Fifteen seconds later he’s sitting at the end of his bed. ((By all means, Sergio, do come in and make yourself at home)).

“Can I, uh, can I talk to you,” and he fidgets because that’s what Sergio’s do. He’s not as good at hiding himself from the world, hasn't perfected it as Cristiano has but that’s what makes Sergio so beautifully Sergio; he wears his heart on his sleeve, isn’t afraid for people to see that he has one. “I mean, /may/ I speak with you,” and Cristiano nods though he doesn’t understand the speech adjustment nor Sergio’s need for it. “Apparently, I bothered you last night, I bothered you a lot and I feel the need to apologize for making you feel uneasy in what should be a comfortable space. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” yet he doesn’t feel okay as his own guilt seemingly twinges from within his gut. “I mean, it’s not okay. You’re okay, you did nothing wrong -- except for the vomit but you had no direct control over that -- I just, I shouldn’t have yelled at you the way that I did. It was unkind and unwarranted.” There, emotions discussed… and yet Sergio seems to be more confused than he had been earlier that same day. No matter, he easily shrugs it off as Sergio is always confused by something it would seem. “Is everything? I mean, are we…? Is everything okay between us?” ((Why are you shaking your head?))

“Look, Cris… I /am/ sorry for making you uncomfortable last night, and for vomiting on you -- that is most regrettable -- but I can’t sit here and honestly tell you that I’m sorry for everything. I just… I can’t do that.” ((Why the fuck not?)) “Do you remember that match last season, the one against Valencia?” He shakes his head because there had been four of them, three that they played consecutively and they all seemed to blur into one another. “Halftime with Mourinho yelling at you…” ((“How could I forget that? I was working my ass off and the cunt insisted that I was out there doing nothing. It was all over the headlines for weeks”)) “...and then you came back in and yelled at everyone else, slammed the doors of the lockers around…? After the game, you and I, we went to the bus early and took the seats in the back…? We didn’t even wait for Mou’s senseless lecture, we just took off.” Sergio sighs as nostalgia creeps in, “I think about that night often, more often than I probably should. I remember it a bit differently than you do, I remember it fondly and I… I like you, Cristiano.”

He looks up from his book for the first time since the mentioning of Valencia. “I grow on people like mold," he chuckles as he thumbs the page to a turn. "Five years of playing together, it was bound to happen sometime,” he sighs out as he recalls first meeting Sergio, “don’t be too hard on yourself." They hadn’t liked one another in the slightest and had made no secret of it, hadn’t bothered to pretend to as Sergio had called him an ((“unnecessary acquisition”)) and a ((“waste of money”)) his first time in the locker room with the squad while Cristiano had settled for the simple, yet stabbing ((“overrated”)) label. “I like you, too, Sergio. You’re not as bad as your 2010 hair.”

He laughs but he doesn't mean to. “No… I mean,” he sighs, grateful that Cristiano seems preoccupied with a book written in ((French?)) once more. “I mean…” but he bails on himself, quits as the confession seems lobbed within the back of his throat and he can't will it out. “You’re not as bad as your 2006 teeth, I guess.” He falls back into the bed as Cristiano's chuckled relief reaches him.

((Iker)): ...but can they do it on a cold, rainy night in Stoke? 

((Outgoing)): ...not even on a warm evening in Phoenix.  

((Iker)): You've got to be fucking with me? I can't help but feel as if you're making this a lot more difficult than necessary. Know that I'm pretty pissed off with you for making me break a promise I've made to myself... I'll be there in a few minutes. Let me in.


	3. Jump.

He’s trying his hardest not to laugh, friends aren’t supposed to make fun of friends and, besides, ((“this is a serious problem”)), or so he’s been informed by Sergio countless times... but it’s nearly impossible not to laugh, is almost cruel to expect otherwise as Sergio seems to have found himself stuck within his own shirt, and that the defender swears in huffed breaths that it had fit him just last week and yet…? It amuses the keeper all the more. He’s not going to attempt to help him out of this one, Sergio has to learn to be self-reliant at some point in time and now is as good as any...

...but Cristiano doesn’t seem to agree with him as he makes an appearance within the doorway. “What the hell, Sergio? How did you…? Iker?! Are you just going to sit there and let him…?” Cristiano is having a bit of a chuckle at the situation himself, the difference being that he’s actually attempting to free Sergio’s ((“big ass head”)) from the neck of the shirt, despite how difficult a task the writhing and wriggling of the defender seems to make it. About two minutes in, and with a bit more muscle, Sergio’s finally free. “How did you manage to get stuck in /this/ shirt,” the winger asks as he appraises the fabric, raising a perfectly sculpted brow in the direction of the Sevillan as the shirtless other shrugs beneath flushed cheeks. It’s obvious the shirt would fit the defender, will with ease no less, but somehow… “Whatever. Just don’t throw a blanket over his head, Iker. We may never see him again.”

He's biting his tongue in the most literal sense, has been since Cristiano had come in to rescue Sergio in distress, but he can hold it no longer. He explodes with laughter as Cristiano leaves them for the source of the oh-so delicious smell filling the hotel room -- ((“is he making cookies? Those smell like cookies”)) -- and shakes his head towards the other captain, feels embarrassed for him. “I don’t know that you deserve a cookie…” he grins as Sergio hits him with another shirt, tosses it aside with ease, “...but I know how much you want the cookie.” He then yawns, oh-so suddenly remembering the hour and his own tiredness. “The question is, how to get the cookie.”

“I DON’T WANT…” he emphatically yells, quickly correcting himself before he manages to make a fool of himself for the third or fourth, perhaps fifth time within the past twenty-four hours. Sergio tries his hand at whispering, albeit rather loudly but still, he isn't yelling anymore. “I don’t want the cookie, Iker. Stop talking about the cookie. It's not always about the cookie.” He shakes his head but can do nothing to deter the smile that takes shape as Iker smirks mischievously in his direction. “I mean, I would /love/ to have the cookie and, you know, it's kind of about the cookie but, you know, after… dinner?”

Shaking his head, he attempts to stifle his amusement because “that is disgusting”. It’s not so much the sentiment that’s thrown him off -- he finds it all rather sweet, in truth -- but that it’s Sergio who is in possession of it. It's simply... It just feels... It's all so odd to him. Sure, the man’s always been over the top with his emotions and referring to him as a helpless romantic is a gross understatement but… They’re talking about Cristiano for fucks sake. He decides to keep his mouth closed, though, as he doesn’t want to deter Sergio from actually (and finally) doing something. “Just go out there and talk to him, you know, like you always do and then, talk to him how you want to talk to him.” He holds up his hand as Sergio attempts to counter him, is tired of every excuse the man seems to have (and is just plain tired) and moves to find his feet. “Just /do/ something, Sergio… before it’s too late and before you find yourself stuck feeling everything for a person that no longer exists.”

He follows Iker out of the room, smiles softly in return as Cristiano offers them ((“...fucking brownies!? Even better than cookies”)) and plates with two chocolate squares on each, before he waves off Iker -- "make sure that plate makes it back" -- and attempts to calm himself for what he wants to -- no -- attempts to calm himself for what he /is/ about to do. “You’ve been cooking a lot lately,” he observes as Cristiano places the leftovers in the suite’s refrigerator. “We’re going to have to seek out Gordon Ramsey and challenge him to a bake off at this rate,” and he notices the smile; it’s hard to miss as it’s different from any other smile he’s seen painting the face of the forward before, it’s almost sad.

“Yeah, it’s.. It’s just a phase,” the talisman breathes out as he begins obsessing over the dishes and the mess he’s made in the process of his artistry. “Last month, I channeled my inner interior designer and now my son’s room is a horrific green colour -- he loves it, says it reminds him of Monsters Inc. -- but, I don’t know… It kind of gives me a headache,” he laughs as he recalls how long it took for him to find his things as he had rearranged everything within his house that month, recalls how he had vowed to never again.

“A phase? Phases are for indecisive, hormonal teenagers and the moon,” he forces out through the brownie that has been stuffed into his mouth, “not for a twenty-eight year old footballer. I mean, we know who we are at this point, we’re just trying to make ourselves work with the rest of the world, you know? It goes without saying that there’s more to us than the football -- I mean, a massive part of me is football and I’m sure it’s the same for you, too -- but we go home at the end of the day… That I’ll burn down my kitchen and that you place five star food on a plate, it’s just another part of who you are, not a phase or…" He pauses as his mind catches up with his mouth. "I’m rambling. You can, you can just tell me to shut up, Cristiano. I might cry about it but I’ll understand.” He chuckles at himself as he feels crimson blooming on his cheeks. “It’s just… I ramble when I get nervous.”

The tickings of an unseen clock fill the room as curious looks find the top of a head. “Why are you nervous right now? It’s just you and me… and those brownies, but not for long as you can’t seem to keep your hands off of them. While I’m flattered, you should probably go a bit easier on them; we have training tomorrow and I don’t know that Carlo would be overly thrilled to discover that you’ve found ten pounds in the span of a day.” He grins as Sergio cuts his eyes over at him, starts drying all of the dishes he’s washed while returning them to the cupboards from whence they came. “So, why are you nervous?”

Taking a moment, he grabs at his throat and pats his chest, waits for Cristiano to finish pouring the milk before he even attempts an answer -- no -- before he tries his hand at the truth. “I’m, uh, I’m not sure if it’s something totally new, if it’s something old that gradually came to be as pronounced as it is now… I don’t know why I…. No, I do know why but I can’t make sense of it but it’s, it’s kind of weird because I don’t feel the need to find the sense of it. I just know it, I feel it, and I’m okay with it -- more, more than okay with it -- but you…” he pauses as he finds Cristiano’s quizzical expression, takes a moment to wonder where the other became lost on the plate of spaghetti that is his mind, “...you make me nervous, Cris.”

He doesn't pause, not even for a moment to consider the words. He feels that he doesn't need to. "I know I can be intimidating but we've played together for years and I don’t…” he trails as he finds Sergio shaking his head as if to say ‘no’. “I’m not going to attack you or hurt you or…” and once more, brakes screeching to a halt because -- ((“no”)) -- no, that’s not quite it either. Cristiano is confused and he isn’t trying to hide it.

“You just…” Just nothing. There is no exact or precise feeling for it, there is nothing absolute about the nature of Sergio’s thoughts, about how he has been made to feel. There are questions, curiosities, wonders, fuzzy lines that pull him closer because maybe if he, perhaps he could... but there is nothing absolute about it. ((...then talk to him how you /want/ to talk to him))... “I feel different when I’m around you. It’s like I notice you more and in ways… In ways I’ve never noticed anyone before, I guess... I mean, I know, I know it’s different.” He almost stops speaking, almost because if he does he knows he may never again and that scares him more than all that he’s already said; it’s scary, the idea of saying something of this nature to someone he cares for but, it terrifies him to his core, unnerves him to think that his words may go unheard, may be misunderstood. He needs to be understood, and so he makes himself…

He speaks without words, not because he fails to find them but because there are too many; there is too much to say, too much for him to try to explain and not enough time -- never enough time. It makes his head spin. He tries and yet somewhere along the way, somewhere in the space between him and him, he loses himself. It’s only when the feel of soft lips press against his that he finds himself once more… and he’s horrified.

...and he implodes. Shoving Sergio off himself, almost in a panic -- (he can’t seem to breathe; he tries but so much, too much, everything he’s bottled in and locked away, it all seems to have blocked off his airways) -- he takes a few steps away from the other, takes a moment to catch his breath, a moment to… “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” His voice is low and seemingly calm but still it shakes as he speaks. His thoughts are pulsating at two hundred kilometers per second yet they depart his lips as a steady, flowing river. He betrays himself. “I tell one person… I show one moment of weakness and I confide one piece of myself in somebody and now, all of a sudden, you think…?” He presses his lips in a firm line, joylessly laughs as the thoughts find him, as the highs of his cheekbones are stained by the salty-wet of his eyes. 

“I am a lot of things, Sergio -- a lot of things -- but I am not, nor have I ever been, so insecure with myself that I would allow someone to take advantage of…” ((“I don't even know what you’re on about, Cristiano!”)) “Oh, so I’m supposed to think of it as a coincidence that on the very evening that I tell Iker that I’m… The very same evening you try to come on to me? So what is it, Sergio? Huh? I don’t do this and you take it to the press? ...you tell Florentino? ...my friends? ...my family? ...my s--” but the word catches the everything, the word catches and pulls everything out from within him until he’s little more than a sobbing mess, until he becomes unrecognizable to both himself and to those who know him best. He isn’t equipped to handle all of this -- any of this -- and he'll readily confess as much, even if only to himself as panic takes residency within his chest for the first time since he's hit puberty... ((God, when will it end)). Anxiety wraps around his throat, chokes out more of the salty-wet than he has to give but he doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to figure out how this chapter will play out but he can't, for the life of him, hide what's already been found, erase from the memory what's already been read. He can't go back. He shakes his head as the reality grounds him. No, he isn't equipped handle all of this...

...not alone. Arms snake around him -- ((resist)) -- anchoring him in a warm hold -- ((resist)) -- with the unwhispered promise of safety within -- ((resist)) -- but as much as he tries to ((resist)), as much as he struggles against the warmth is as much as he fails to ((resist))... He's uninspired to move, has been defeated by the reality of the cold, empty room lying in wait, by the reality that he has nowhere better to be, no warmer embrace to run into. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He shakes his head, bites his lip to hold back that initial surge of emotion. He hates but he loves that he... He loves but he hates that he... He laughs without the fill of joy or amusement, laughs because “why do you have to be so self-centered?" He loves but he hates... He smiles softly as large, doe eyes find him. “I, uh… You remember Jésus’ birthday party a couple days back? It was, I was a mess. It would seem that I became intoxicated , as impossible as that may seem, and I told Iker that I kind of, well, that I… I told told him that I thought of you in /that/ way, that I thought I thought of you in that… way? Either way, he took that information and shoved us into a room with one another to see if my head cleared and it, it didn’t. I’m a fucking mess both emotionally and physically and last night… I was worried about having done something deplorable because you seemed, I don’t know, different in some way. So I asked Iker to check on you. I didn’t even know and I would never…”

“I'm not... I'm sorry. I just thought... You're not the only one. I mean, I yelled at you last night -- that's putting it rather modestly -- but I... I may have smacked you once, maybe it was twice. I thought…” and Cristiano decides he needs to take a break, removes himself from Sergio’s hold in an attempt to find space, breathable air. He’s never been good at showing himself to other people, isn’t going to pretend like the ‘let’s bond as we share our emotional strife’ is his thing and right now, right now there just feels like there’s too much of that. “I’m sorry that I thought that you were mocking me last night but I must have, I misunderstood. I should have never assumed and I should have never hit you like that.”

...but Sergio doesn’t want to talk about last night, not anymore. He doesn’t want to reflect and he doesn't want to think, he wants this moment, he needs this space and he needs this time in now. “Is that it then? I kiss you… and you’re sorry for thinking that everything is about you? ...yet you’re attempting to end this conversation as if there is no presence of me, my feelings, my emotions within it?” He’s frustrated to say the least: ...frustrated that he’s such a Sergio and that Cristiano is such a Cristiano ...frustrated that there’s so much he wants to say, so much that he needs to say and yet the words all jumble together and nothing departs his lips ...frustrated that Cristiano isn’t giving him anything either way -- he isn’t shoving him away in abhorrence, isn’t pulling him in out of eager curiosity -- and he’s left standing there, looking and feeling like a moron for having put himself out here ...frustrated that Cristiano either has no clue or no care for how he makes him feel. And so, Sergio embraces his Sergio, invades the space Cristiano has sought out, purposefully finds his lips with his own before the protests and pleas for space find him.

Apprehension takes a backseat to intrigue, reservations set aside as wonder fills the void left, insecurity falls to rubble as Spanish lips work against his own and he has no idea of what he is doing, of what he should do. There is no logical response to being kissed like this, there is no set way to respond and he can’t be bothered to attempt one as Spanish lips are dancing beautifully with his own, a fleeting wonder of ((when did I start kissing him back)) as a warm hand falls against the back of his neck, as the kiss deepens and breathes new life into his soul. He’s only just realised that he wants this, wants this so much so that his fingertips and his toes start to ache.

In the same manner that he governs the kiss with no true resistance, Sergio’s impulse dominates the rest of the encounter, the timid and hesitant responses of the winger falling to naught as Sergio garners control over the hem of Cristiano’s shirt. He has always admired the physique of the other from afar, has openly praised the talisman for his work ethic but to praise them like this, with a touch rather than a word… “Beautiful”... and it’s as if, with that single whisper, he’s exposed the weakness in Cristiano’s defenses and, if Cristiano’s soft moans were anything to go by, he’s begging for him to exploit it.

* * *

“This was my idea, is my idea,” this is his idea, “and I have no reason to be nervous about this”, and he has every reason to be nervous about this. He’s never been with a man before and, even if he had, he’s never been with a man like Cristiano before. “You’re going to do great,” he tells himself as he turns the faucet to ‘on’ and splashes his face, “you are a sexual predator.” Maybe he takes a step back away from the mirror, maybe he examines his erection as it presses against the fabric of his boxer-briefs and fixes it just so -- but if he does, he’ll never confess to it -- before he cracks the door open to snag a peak of Cristiano. He’s disappointed to find that Cristiano doesn’t seem to be experiencing even two percent of the nerves he is feeling. ((I’m not nervous, I’ve got this)). Okay, he’s not nervous, he’s simply peeking out of the bathroom because he’s…

“Sergio,” Cristiano chuckles as he finds the Sevillan peeking from the doorway of the bathroom, “are you okay?” He’s overheard the pep talk, is well aware of the ‘sexual predator’ gazing upon him, but he doesn’t dare to inform Sergio of this knowledge. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t…”

“Oh, I do,” he cuts the other off as he finally steps out of the bathroom, full of pride as Cristiano’s eyes seem to widen at the sight of his -- “I just had to make sure everything is in order before we, you know.”

He laughs and he can’t help it. “We’ve seen each other naked before Sergio. You’ve even slapped me with your dick in the showers if I remember correctly. After Betis, I think. I mean, sure, it wasn’t quite as…” his eyes widen further still as he finds Sergio’s -- “but I’ve seen it.”

"You’ve seen little Sergio, not this monster,” he chuckles as a grin smears itself across the features of the other. “I’m going to be completely honest with you, it may take some mental preparation on your behalf to…” ((“¡Dios! I don’t think I can do this if you’re going to, you know, if you’re going to be like this. You’re making it awkward”)). The laugh is as big as his smile as he strides across the room, as he pulls the other in for a warm embrace. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood a bit,” he softly confesses as he begins to spray the neck of the winger with soft, gentle pecks, “I’m just trying to get you to relax,” a few pecks stringing from the neck across jawline, “to unwind”, to home.

It’s a deeper kiss than the first, a more powerful, a more demanding, a more consuming kiss that threatens to transport him from here to nirvana but he’s nowhere near ready for that. His movements are more decisive, are more purposeful as his touch finds a cheekbone and a sigh, a pectoral and a whimper, a waistband and a moan. He feels Cristiano hardening with each second he spends within his grip, hears his breathing hitch as lips exchange lips for a pulsing carotid and he takes a moment to wonder how it’s possible for someone to taste so good, to feel so good pressed against him before he simply dives in, surrounds himself with the touch and the feel, the sounds and the taste of Cristiano Ronaldo…

...and he doesn’t know how he’s come to be here. On his knees, peering down at Cristiano as a sheet of sweat coats both of their skins, asking him for what has to be the thirtieth time if he’s sure about this. He isn’t sure of which eye of which god he’s found favor in but ((damn)). Damn. He’s seen beautiful things in his life -- mesmerizing views and too-pretty people, a blanket of stars in a gaze downward cast -- but he’s never had the pleasure of bearing witness to anything as beautiful as this: ...as beautiful as the part of Portuguese lips ...as beautiful as the heaviness of the want held within Cristiano's gaze … as beautiful as the sound of his name dripping from off of /those/ lips, in /that/ way. He snaps a picture, prays it never fades... complies with the beautifully simple, beautifully everything ((“Sergio, please”)) and grabs the lube from out of the nightstand.

The bottle claims it’s for maximizing the pleasures associated with masturbation and he has a chuckle, side eyes Cristiano as the other quirks an eyebrow and tilts a corner of his lips in one part confession, two parts amusement.

He swallows the vocalizations of pain, the whimpers of discomfort as his fingers find entry, as his fingers spill into the tightness of the other and are consumed by a heat incomparable to anything he’s ever experienced. A third digit and Cristiano arches his back, swears in Portuguese, English, Spanish, and ((French?)) French as the intrusive third pushes further within him. Biting his own lip as he resists the temptation to do something inherently rash, he wiggles his fingers around a bit (because that’s what they do on PornHub), kisses the herculean thighs of the number seven in a desperate attempt to relax him, watches in awe as Cristiano struggles in the battle between pain and pleasure, as Cristiano grips and claws at his biceps, at his wrist. He isn’t sure of what he needs to do next (PornHub tends to cut the transitions out)…

...doesn’t need to be as Cristiano seizes control of his fingers, his hand by way of his wrist, as Cristiano moves them out from within himself and back in a delicious rhythm. Sergio hasn’t a concern for the one-sided pleasure, is mesmerized by the images unfolding before him -- ((fucking hell)) -- and doesn’t move until Cristiano withdraws his fingers with demanding force. ((You are a sexual predator. You have got this Ramos)).

He struggles with getting the condom on ((because of fucking course he does)) and finds Cristiano triumphantly when he finally pulls the plastic to his base with success; he doesn’t even care that Cristiano is ruining the moment with his laughter because the winger is about to be choking on all of it and more when he gets his hands on him. “You ready,” and he smiles as Cristiano checks an invisible watch, smiles as the forward shrugs ‘indifferently’, and presses…

“Fuck!” The resistance is immediate and the clench is brutal -- the amount of effort it takes to still himself, to keep himself from thrusting into that delicious warmth is astronomical -- but he bites his lip until it bleeds as Cris clenches his teeth together, bears through the want as Cristiano attempts to persuade himself to calm in haste. He leans forward and finds Cristiano’s ear with warm, soft assurances, informs him of how beautiful he looks, of how incredible he feels leaving a batch of kisses on the highs of the other’s cheekbones, the point of his chin and the peak of his nose. “Just breathe with me, bicho. Nice and slow. Breathe…”

He hadn’t meant to make Cristiano laugh and yet… ((“Really? You think calling me a pest is what’s going to relax me?”)) He smiles as he feels Cristiano’s muscles starting to give, stifles a moan as he feels himself slowly yet surely sinking towards the interior of the other. “It’s working,” he manages to choke out as Cristiano returns to inaudibles and hushed whimpers, as he buries himself deeper and deeper within the other until he’s buried to the hilt. It takes some time for them to find their rhythm, to situate themselves and to adjust to one another but when they do… “Oh, fuck!” and Sergio’s drowning in the moment, in the image of Cristiano being done over in such a delirious state.

Cristiano tastes like the colour red, feels like winning a World Cup and Sergio isn’t sure if he can come back from this, addicted with the first touch, the first taste and he knows before it starts that they can’t go back, that he can’t go back. He’s riding a pleasure he never thought existed, he’s existing in a man he never thought he could attain in this manner, in this way… but as with all good things.

((Riding a shark in the middle of hurricane on a direct path with a volcano)); that’s the only way he can describe it and, fortunately for Sergio, no one asks. They’re lying in a heap, a tangle of arms and legs, glued to one another by sweat and cum and he swears, he’s never been a part of something more beautiful, something more amazing. “Are you still angry, Cris?”

He smiles as the question reaches him but it dims ever so slightly as he recalls something from the night before, dims further still as he turns the something over within his mind. In an instant, he comes crashing down from his euphoric high, comes slamming back down to earth as regret finds him. Gravity. Reality. “Hey, Sergio?” ((“Hmm?)) “The other night, when I was putting you to bed the first time… You, you said something and I don’t want, I don’t want you to look at this and to think…” He trails as Sergio’s movement rings as sudden, freezes as Sergio comes full face with him. ((“What did I say?”)) He looks for something to distract him from the weight of Sergio’s stare, finds the blades of a ceiling fan. “You, you may have… You told me that you loved me,” he rushes out, blushing as Sergio’s eyes widen as those of an owl, “but I didn't, I don’t… I don’t know how you meant it and I… It's soon and, up until today, I didn't even think...”

“Oh, no. We'll, I mean,” he interrupts as Cristiano seems to be growing increasingly flustered, attempts to hide his own wave of nerves and apprehensions in the process, “I’m not overly sure of what I meant by it either… but, I don’t know, maybe we can find out one day? I mean, not today because, well," he laughs as the nerves get to him, smiles because that's part of what he does when he's nervous, "today is too soon. I mean, I just...? and we just...? Not today, certainly not today but maybe, maybe one day? One day not today. One day... together?” The pause feels like it lasts a lifetime, his heart feels as if shards of glass stab at it with each beat, but as with all things -- as each sentence leads to punctuation, as what goes up must come down, as each story has a final chapter, as the only guaranteed thing in life is finality -- the moment ends, ends with a whispered ((“Maybe?”))

"Maybe." He’s okay with maybe, he's more than okay with maybe. Maybe is everything because maybe, maybe is an answer, the answer to a question he's always been afraid to ask. Maybe is a chance. He smiles. ((Maybe.)) "Bicho."

* * *

He isn’t angry, not really -- he’s actually relieved beyond belief that Sergio has actually done something -- but he’s stressed, extremely stressed because it’s two o’clock in the morning and he’s still tired, he still hasn’t found his bed as of yet, and training starts at 0800.

“Do you plan on coming in anytime soon,” and he turns to find Xabi standing just beside the French doors, rubbing his arms as the dryness of the air takes effect on his skin. “They’re no longer arguing next door, things have quieted down a bit and I’m sure you can get to bed.” He forces his balled fingers to explode in celebration and Iker smiles, appreciating the effort.

“Perfect timing. I was just about to leap from the balcony,” he jokes as he casts his eyes downward, tosses the muffin he has been eating and listens as it --pops!-- against the pavement. He makes to return back in but stops as Xabi’s hand flies up, as the eyes of the number fourteen widen. “Are they…” but Iker doesn’t need to hear anything to know what must have happened, he doesn't need an answer -- he knows Sergio too well, knows Cristiano well enough -- and he settles for collapsing on one of the sunbathing chairs, closing his eyes as he’s found his new bed.

((“The ledge of that balcony looks so tempting.”)) “Doesn’t it, though?”

 


End file.
